


Now That We Are One

by vespertineflora



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Biting, Comfort, Dry Humping, Emotions, First Kiss, Grinding, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Finale, Rough Kissing, Season 3 Finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-19 10:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4742327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vespertineflora/pseuds/vespertineflora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal and Will survive the fall, and Hannibal gets Will to a safe house to patch the both of them up and share an intense moment together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Survival

Will gets flashes of consciousness after the fall. The cold of the water with Hannibal’s arms tight around him, the water he willingly drew into his lungs, because that was the whole point of this, wasn’t it?, to die here with Hannibal, to leave the world, but leave it together? 

But the next flash he gets is Hannibal dragging him up onto the shore, the bitter chill of the air on his damp skin and clothes, the sting of the open wound on his cheek, coughing roughly, wetly. The world goes dark, and next he wakes up, he’s in the passenger seat of a car, and he’s damp but warm because the heat is on full blast, it’s silent except for the sound of the road beneath the tires and Hannibal’s hand is wrapped around his own, holding on tight, as if letting go means letting Will slip from life.

When he finally comes to for good, he’s first aware of Hannibal’s hands on him, touching his cheek and neck, Hannibal’s hands as gentle as ever. Will is used to Hannibal’s gentleness being followed by violence, but even if that’s the case once again, Will’s not sure he can bring himself to care.

He intended to die from that fall, from the water. If fate, if Hannibal, has seen fit to save him again, then the time he has left belongs solely to the forces of nature now. To fate, and to Hannibal.

(Hannibal is almost certainly a force of nature.)

Next, Will becomes aware of the pull of the stitches in his face, closing up the gaping, aching wound in his cheek that Dolarhyde had left. That’s what Hannibal is touching, it seems--Will guesses that the stitches are fresh then, no doubt lovingly sewn by Hannibal himself while Will was still out. He feels a dull throb near his eye where he was hit, and the sting in his upper chest from the other knife wound, probably also stitched closed, if Will had to guess. He aches dully, but it’s not even close to pain he’s felt in the past, and barely registers.

Wherever they are now, he’s sitting somewhere soft, and it smells just slightly musty, as if it’s been unused for quite some time. An abandoned house then, perhaps, or maybe one of Hannibal’s many secret residences. If Hannibal picked it, it’s sure to be safe, Will thinks. Far from danger, far from the police’s suspicions as to where they might run to. Will figures that the last thing Hannibal wants is to be caught again, especially now.

Will’s head tilts forward a little, into Hannibal’s hands. They’re calloused, but the skin is so damn warm against him, and it feels like relief after so much cold. The tenderness feels perfect after so much strife.

But it must tip Hannibal off. He speaks up, his voice just as tender as his hands, “Are you awake, Will?”

Will almost prefers to pretend he isn’t. If Hannibal intends to... punish him, for throwing them both over a cliff, for trying to kill the both of them, he won’t do it while Will is sleeping. So long as Will’s asleep, he’s safe, he’s free to bask in Hannibal’s affection, to let himself know what it means to be loved by him, without fear of the sharp backlash that too often follows.

The scar across his belly gives a dull throb. He hasn’t forgotten how Hannibal punishes betrayal.

“I have no intentions of hurting you again,” Hannibal says, as if reading Will’s mind (Hannibal reading Will’s mind has been the problem all along). Even without opening his eyes, Will can hear the approval in his voice. “I’m not angry about what you did. If we had died, it would have been a poetic way to go. A lover’s leap, if you will.”

And somehow, Will believes him. They’ve... opened themselves up to one another now, the truth has been laid bare between them after all these years, and Will doesn’t feel the intent to lie or mislead. He believes Hannibal, and he cracks open his eyes, only to be met with the warmest look he’s ever seen on the face of anyone looking at him. The love is pouring out of Hannibal. Everything from the open smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, to the soft lines of his face... everything about it screams adoration, and it’s almost too much--Will has never had _anyone_ gaze upon him like this, and even before when Hannibal would look at him with that special twinkle in his eyes, it was never as upfront as this.

It’s so fucked up, but no one has ever been so deeply in love with him as Hannibal is.

“ _Will._ ”

Hannibal says his name in reverence, like a prayer, and Will forgets to take a breath.

“How are you feeling?”

“Alive,” Will croaks roughly--there was seawater in his lungs, at some point--his voice strained, “Mostly.”

Hannibal’s thumb strokes across his cheek, leaving Will to shiver, as he explains, “Good. Your face and chest are stitched up now. Neither are life-threatening, but it’s going to leave a scar, I’m afraid.”

Will would shrug, if he had the energy for it. He says dismissively, “What’s a few more?”

Hannibal doesn’t seem to disagree with the sentiment. He has his own fair share of scars, after all. But when he speaks, there’s a touch of regret in his voice, “I do wish he’d avoided your face.”

Will understands the half-spoken compliment without Hannibal needing to say it directly. He lets out a breath as he tries to swallow the words, closes his eyes again so that he doesn’t have to watch Hannibal still looking at him like that, even though he can practically still feel his gaze on him.

Despite the part of his brain telling him it’s _time to run_ , the part of him that’s been trying to force himself away from Hannibal since the beginning... Will doesn’t see the point in fighting it anymore. Fuck, he’s been fighting this urge for... what, five years now? Close to that. He’s _tired_. He’s bone-deep tired of pretending to be something or someone that he’s not, tired of burying the part of himself that Hannibal’s spent so much time digging up. He tried to separate himself from Hannibal, and he’s found himself dragged back, again and again, and even now, they’ve both been spared and forced back into each other’s orbit once more and...

The universe, God, whatever force might exist out there that’s beyond Will’s comprehension... whatever they are, they seem pretty damn intent on Will being with Hannibal, and Will’s not going to fight it anymore if the universe wants it that fucking bad.

He exhales and lets his face slump into Hannibal’s strong hands; he isn’t disappointed.

Even the way Hannibal touches him is almost overstimulating. Hannibal’s hands, so willingly capable of destruction, hold his head like it’s made of glass, like something precious, meant to be cherished. Hannibal’s fingers run back through his hair, his fingertips move across Will’s cheekbones and forehead and the bridge of his nose, until Hannibal’s hand is cradling Will’s jaw and Will feels the pad of Hannibal’s thumb ghost across his lips.

The movement sends a chill down Will’s spine, but he doesn’t go against it, doesn’t pull away or tell Hannibal to stop. He’s not really sure he wants him to.

Hannibal’s thumb hovers over his lips for a second, as if waiting for resistance, and when none is given, it lowers to Will’s lips again, tracing them over once more with only a bit more pressure than before.

When the thumb lightly tugs down Will’s lower lip, he’s not sure he can take it anymore. Will’s not sure how long Hannibal’s felt this moment coming, and Will knows what Hannibal wants, what Hannibal’s wanted for years and just won’t seem to take.

It’s too much build up for Will--he needs the resolution and he’s sick of waiting.

“Do it,” he tells him, doesn’t bother to open his eyes, because he can feel Hannibal’s surprise in the sudden stillness of his hands and the hitching of his breath without needing to look at him.

“Will,” Hannibal says again, and Will's not sure his name has ever been able to communicate so damn much as it does with Hannibal; disbelief, reverence, adoration... and somehow, it’s a request for permission. Will is damn near knocked off his feet at the thought of Hannibal asking for permission for anything, much less this.

“Just kiss me,” he spits, before he can change his mind, before he can go back on what he’s decided to commit to, what he committed to the moment the fight with Dolarhyde began, the moment he took Hannibal’s hand to let him pull him from the ground, the moment he leaned into Hannibal, put his arm around him, and tipped them over the ledge. Or perhaps the moment was far earlier than that. Perhaps some part of him had committed to Hannibal the first day he met him in Jack’s office, the first time he learned that, for the first time in his stupid, lonely life, that someone else could play the same mind games he could.

Hannibal gives him just what he asks for.

Will inhales sharply through his nose as he feels Hannibal’s lips press to his, and suddenly his heart is in his throat as if trying to eject (trying to climb into Hannibal’s mouth instead? the mental image is interesting, Will must admit, even if Will doesn’t want to think about Hannibal eating his heart); Hannibal’s mouth is soft, _fuck it’s soft_ , and though Will had no intention of it, he’s suddenly kissing back, moving his lips against Hannibal’s more than Hannibal had seemed to dare.

One of Hannibal’s hands is tightening on the back his neck--but it’s possessive, not threatening, and Will suddenly feels like he’s falling all over again, tumbling forward into Hannibal’s mouth, plummeting over a cliff, except that this time he’s not sure how far the fall is, how far down he’ll go before he hits rock bottom, and he wonders if it really will be the death of him.

(If it were, it wouldn't be such a bad way to go.)

Hannibal separates their lips, and then Hannibal’s forehead is pressed to his and Will is breathless, like he just ran a mile. It feels like shit to admit it, even in his own head... but he’s almost certain that one small kiss was more exhilarating than any sex he’s ever had, and he’s suddenly dizzy to think about what the hell _sex with Hannibal_ would even _be like_. Jesus, he’s not sure he’s ready to _even think_ about that.

But he is sure that he wants another damn kiss. He wasn’t ready for the first one to end, despite the need for air, and he tilts his mouth forward against Hannibal’s again.

He feels Hannibal’s fingers twitch--in surprise--feels the breath Hannibal sucks in against his upper lip, and feels his heart racing, chest swelling, moves their lips together slow and sweet. Perhaps it’s no surprise that they fall into a natural rhythm, since they’ve fallen into nearly every other rhythm together--they kiss like they’ve kissed a thousand times before, like it’s practiced, like they know what the other wants and what they’ll do before it’s even done, even though the steel butterflies flitting around his stomach are a firm reminder that this is still desperately new.

When the kiss breaks again, Hannibal pulls back a little further, and Will licks his lips subconsciously. He tastes blood and saltwater on them, faint, but present. Hannibal’s thumb is back to stroking the undamaged cheek, and it coaxes Will into opening his eyes.

And Hannibal’s still looking at him, staring at him as if he can hardly believe Will is real, and there... there are tears in his eyes. Will can see the moisture brimming along the bottom edge of his eyes, making them shine in the low lighting, and...

It makes Will suddenly aware of his own tears. He’s not sure how he missed them before, because with his eyes open, he can tell he’s crying, can feel the sting of salty moisture, and he realizes that Hannibal hadn’t just stroked his cheek for the hell of it (though he probably would have anyway). There’d been a tear there that Hannibal had wiped away.

“ _Hannibal..._ ” Will can hear the way his voice wavers, and he’s not even sure what he’s asking for, what he’s going to say. He’s always been conflicted, his entire life he’s lived in conflict between who he is and who he wants to be, and it’s only gotten worse, _more_ , since Hannibal (before Hannibal and after Hannibal, he thinks of himself as practically two separate selves now, even though he knows that’s not really true). Hannibal is... everything Will’s ever denied himself for the sake of social normality, Will’s _id_ in human flesh, driving him to manipulation, to murder, and now... to this.

Hannibal kisses him again, and it turns out that it's exactly what Will was asking for.

He leans into the kiss even more than before, and it’s still all lip, no tongue, no teeth, still gentle and sweet and full of words neither of them can really say yet, words neither of them are ready to speak or hear, but still want to communicate and Will won’t admit it to himself but he might just be shaking, just a little bit, and he doesn’t want this moment to pass.

Will’s tired of denying himself everything, at least for now, for this moment. He killed with Hannibal and it was _beautiful_ , more beautiful than even Will could have imagined, and this... this is beautiful too. Part of Will is terrified, more terrified to be in love with Hannibal than he ever was to kill with him, but this moment, here, being held so gently in Hannibal’s hands and finally just accepting that he wants this... it’s been a long time since anything has felt quite so right.

And what a fucking mess they are. They just killed a man together, enjoyed killing a man together... and here they are, crying like babies over a kiss. _Fuck_ , the situation is almost _laughable_. The both of them, _murderers_ , and sentimental, overemotional saps who cry over kissing more tamely then a pair of preteens kissing for the first time.

Will only breaks the kiss when he can’t stand it anymore, when he thinks he might just fall apart from the simple contact, when he thinks that Hannibal’s strong hands aren’t going to be enough to hold him together.

His lips part from Hannibal’s and he leans forward, rests his head on Hannibal’s chest just like before, and lets himself exhale the intensity that he can’t keep bottled up in his chest, let’s this contact... calm him.

Hannibal’s hands hesitate, much like they did before at the top of the bluff, they hover over Will’s shoulders for a long moment, as if giving Will a chance to pull away or change his mind, even though Will is far too tired to do either. Only a moment later does Hannibal touch him, gently laying his hands on Will’s shoulders, sliding them across his back until Hannibal’s arms are wrapped firmly around him.

His forehead is pressed up against Hannibal’s neck, and he feels... warm and secure. Will’s not sure he’s ever felt anything like this before--he’s been embraced by a lover, of course, but... it wasn’t like this. And Will’s not sure if it’s because he’s only been embraced by women before or... or if it’s just Hannibal. It’s probably just Hannibal. Will wouldn’t feel this same serenity being held by anyone else, because no one else has ever known him the way Hannibal knows him, intimately, to his core. Hannibal _sees him_ , and no one else Will has ever loved has ever seen him so clearly as Hannibal does. 

(No one Will has ever loved has made him see himself so clearly.)

That and it’s _Hannibal_. The man is... almost beyond the natural in too many ways, too strong, too intelligent, too immortal, and Will can’t help that being held like this, pressed to Hannibal’s broad chest and wrapped up in his strong arms... he feels safe. And Will isn’t sure he can remember the last time he felt safe, but he feels it now, feels Hannibal’s protectiveness wrapped around him like a cocoon (or a chrysalis, perhaps), and pointed outward toward the world like a shield around the both of them.

Hannibal won’t let anything hurt him. Will can feel it in the way Hannibal cradles him to his chest, his fingers pressing light circles into Will’s back, his cheeks resting gently against Will’s hair as Will slowly breathes in, smelling the same blood and salt he tasted on Hannibal’s lips. If anyone were to burst in on them like this, Hannibal would use himself as a shield to save Will from whatever came, just as he did so few hours ago, putting himself between Will and the Dragon, taking a bullet for him.

Will loses track of how long they stay that way. It’s so long overdue that they’re probably overcompensating, and Will won’t try to claim he’s fully awake through all of it. It’s been a long day, and Will lost too much blood to be expected to stay conscious for much longer.

Eventually, Hannibal speaks up, just as his fingers push back through Will’s mess of curls, “You should rest.”

“Hmm,” Will agrees weakly. Part of him doesn’t want to move at all, doesn’t want to lose peace now that he’s found it, accepts it, and accepts living with it. It’s too good to give up.

But when Hannibal starts to move, he moves with him and lets Hannibal pull him to his feet. Even with a bullet wound in his gut, Hannibal is sturdy enough to support his weight and lead him through the small home, down a short hallway to the door leading into the bedroom. Hannibal carries him towards the bed, sets him down on the edge, then kneels down on the floor in front of him and the look Hannibal gives him makes Will think of _worship_ , even though it seem ridiculous for Hannibal to worship him. If either of them is a malevolent deity, it’s most certainly Hannibal.

His hands raise to the buttons of Will’s shirt, the top two already undone from Hannibal’s stitching of the chest wound, and pause once more, putting the power of rejection once more in Will’s hands... but Will knows that Hannibal has undressed him before, more than once, sees no use in stopping him this time when Will’s fingers are probably too clumsy right now to work the buttons anyway. He doesn’t move away or tell Hannibal no, and soon Hannibal’s fingers are unbuttoning his blood-stained shirt, one by one, until he opens it, slides it down Will’s arms and tosses it aside.

Will almost expects more contact--or perhaps _expects_ is the wrong word. He doesn’t think Hannibal will touch him, his bare chest, not now, not with how Hannibal is treating him, but... he can sense that Hannibal wants to. He knows Hannibal would love nothing more than to put his hands all over him, but he won’t, not until Will tells him he can.

And there’s something particularly strange in knowing that, that Hannibal is willingly giving him the power to decide, when Hannibal was content before to make so many other decisions for him.

Hannibal’s hands go to Will’s belt next and remove it quickly, but he leaves his pants alone. He tugs down the covers and helps Will beneath them, covering him up, tucking him in, before he sits down on the bed next to him to stroke his fingers through Will’s hair as Will closes his eyes and starts to drift under the strange serenity he gets from having Hannibal pet him like this.

He’s shaken awake suddenly when he feels Hannibal start to move, realizes immediately that he’s leaving, and a panic grips Will suddenly; without thinking, his hand darts out to catch Hannibal’s just as he rises to his feet.

Hannibal stops immediately, turns to look down at Will with interest on his face.

“Where are you going?” Will asks, surprising himself a little with the intensity of the words.

“Back to the couch,” Hannibal replies, “to sleep.”

Will doesn’t let go of Hannibal’s hand as he processes the words, and Hannibal doesn’t pull away. It just... doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t want Hannibal to sleep in another room... it’s such a ridiculous sensation, something Will never would have guess of himself, but Will doesn’t want Hannibal to be that far away from him. He’ll actually feel _safer_ having Hannibal close.

“Don’t,” he finally says, letting out a breath. “Just sleep here. The bed’s big enough.” Will’s not sure he could handle Hannibal... touching him through the night, but... he doesn’t want him far from arm’s reach. He’s not ready for it, not just yet.

“As you wish,” Hannibal says, giving Will’s hand a soft squeeze before lowering it gently to the bed. Will watches, can’t help but watch, as Hannibal pulls the sweater up over his head, as Will realizes that... he’s never seen him shirtless, though he compartmentalizes the thoughts for another day, another time, and instead just watches Hannibal round the bed to the other side and join him under the covers.

Hannibal keeps his distance, probably already knowing that Will needs it, but he smiles warmly as Will looks at him and he says, “Good night, Will.”

Will’s heartbeat slows, calms, as he watches Hannibal close his eyes, feels at ease knowing Hannibal is with him. He watches Hannibal until his breathing is slow and steady, even though Will had been tired before, he wants to watch Hannibal fall asleep in front of him.

And there’s something even more settling about that; Hannibal trusts him. Will could attack Hannibal right now, could find some way to hurt him in his sleep, but... Hannibal is giving him the power to make that choice for himself. Or he has enough trust in Will to believe that he won't hurt him again.

Will _doesn’t_ want to hurt Hannibal, not with... the number of doors that have opened up for them now, not with the endless possibilities that lie ahead. The part of him that’s afraid of his inner demons has gone quiet for now, and he just wants to see where this new path will take them.

He lets out a breath, closes his eyes, and follows Hannibal into sleep.

(He follows him into the dark.)


	2. Life After Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will wakes up the morning after the kiss.

Will wakes up to the sound of water running nearby. 

His head hurts--actually, everything hurts, if he’s being honest. His cheek is throbbing dully, his chest, the two stab wounds are the most prominent pain outside of the pounding in his head. It’s still not Hannibal’s prior parting gift, it’s nothing compared to the gaping wound Hannibal had left him with years ago, the now fainter line of scar tissue across his belly. Nothing could hurt like that did, Will’s certain of it.

When he looks over, the bed is empty, and part of him wonders if last night wasn’t just some ridiculous fever dream. He’s had dreams far more obscene than what had happened last night, dreams that made _more sense_ than everything that happened last night, and part of him knows damn well that he can dream vividly enough to not be sure if what he dreamed was real. He knows because it’s happened too many times to really keep track of.

But he’s pretty sure that last night happened outside of his head. The knife wounds are pretty decent evidence of that, and... he’s never before woken up from a dream actually remembering what Hannibal’s lips felt like on his own. 

It doesn’t take long to work out that the sound of running water is coming from the bathroom; Hannibal must be in the shower, which frankly sounds like a wonderful idea, and Will quickly has to bat away the intrusive thoughts telling him to just _join Hannibal_ , because fuck, no, he’s not even close to ready for that yet.

The situation seems strange in the daylight filtering in through the small windows high on the bedroom walls. He... tried to kill Hannibal last night, and was perfectly content to let himself be killed in the process, was content to die in Hannibal’s arms... and he’s alive now, and technically on the run with Hannibal, for the time being. 

He’s not even sure what to think of that, how to feel. The brightness of day has a tendency to overshine the blood-turned-black in the moonlight and the beauty of it that allowed him to go to Hannibal in the first place, even though he still feels the tugging ache in his chest that’s telling him Hannibal is much too far away (despite him only being on the other side of the bathroom door).

Most of him accepts, though, that... the choice he made was one that... separated him from society. There’s a part of him, a big part of him, that knows he can’t go back now. He’s tasted blood, he’s found beauty in a kill, _admitted_ he found beauty in a kill, and whatever life he thought he could build as a civilian, whatever family he thought he could force himself into... it’s most definitely gone now. After last night, there is no turning back, regardless of how that relates to Hannibal, he feels that the shift in his own mind is too great to ever return to the life that he’d built before.

And while a tiny bit of him is terrified... he mostly just feels free. Something in him has always resented society, probably because he’d been rejected by it at such a young age, had spent years trying to find his place in it and had failed over and over until he’d decided that he preferred the company of dogs to the company of people, because at least the dogs never preferred to ignore him.

Even then, he’d still been determined to have some place in it, and when Hannibal tried to convince Will that he was just as much of a predator as Hannibal was... Will had never been more committed to fitting in, just to prove Hannibal wrong. He’d met Molly, loved her, married her, and put on the hats of father and husband, and for three years, he told himself he was content, and that he’d finally made it, as if finally finding some precarious place as a "normal person" in society earned him some shiny medal he could tote around on his lapel, a label that proved to others he belonged, even if he still felt his own otherness deep down.

But cutting those ties, getting rid of it all... it doesn’t feel like loss, not in the way it should. If he’s lost anything, he’s lost the weight that was holding him down all this time.

Sometime while his mind is drifting, the water must have cut off, because Will is startled from his thoughts as Hannibal emerges from the bathroom, mostly dry and half-dressed. His hair is wet still, neatly slicked back, and he’s got dark dress pants on, a deep red dress shirt that he’s in the process of buttoning up. Will's eyes go first to the bandage on Hannibal’s stomach, covering last night’s bullet wound, before the shirt buttons are covering it, and Will’s eyes drag idly up to Hannibal’s chest, broad and hairy, and Will mentally logs the information without being sure how to feel about it.

Hannibal is looking at him as soon as he enters the room, smiling at him as he buttons his shirt. “Good morning.”

“Mmm,” Will replies, just a little bit irritable. He would never claim that he was a morning person, particularly not when he’s in pain, tired, and desperately hungry (since they hadn’t managed to eat anything between their escape the previous day and now). None of that is a recipe for him being in a good mood at any time of the day, much less right after he wakes up.

Hannibal doesn’t seem thrown off by the grumpy reply--to be fair, Hannibal rarely ever is. Will’s attitude has always seemed to amuse him more than it ever disturbed him. “There’s plenty of hot water left, if you’d like to shower.”

The thought is immediately appealing. Will sucks in a breath to prepare for the pain of moving, then pushes himself upright--immediately, his head spins. The blood loss of last night and not eating makes for a terrible combination.

He takes another slow breath to steady himself before pushing his body up off the bed, swaying only a little in his step as he walks towards the bathroom door, where Hannibal lingers.

Will just about expects it when Hannibal reaches out and catches his arm, but his heart still gives a little thud at having Hannibal touch him after last night. It attempts to leap into his throat again, and he promptly swallows it.

From the corner of his eye, Will can see Hannibal regarding him, smiling faintly at him, but Will refuses to meet his gaze. Will feels tense for a moment as he tries to fathom what Hannibal is going to do, not even able to form a list of possibilities in his head (or not willing to).

But... nothing happens. They just stand there, close, and Will can feel the fresh heat of the shower coming off of Hannibal’s skin. As the moment drags on, Will slowly feels himself relaxing, his body getting used to Hannibal being so close, acclimating, adapting. 

After a moment, Hannibal gives Will’s arm a gentle squeeze. “I’ve left a change of clothes for you in the bathroom,” he says, his voice warm and soothing to Will’s ears. “I’ll start breakfast. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Even just the mention of food makes Will’s stomach give a pang of hunger. Food suddenly sounds _better_ than a shower, but since the food isn’t ready yet anyway, there’s no point in not showering first.

Hannibal flashes him a smile before he lets go of Will’s arm, then leaves the room. Will exhales sharply, shakes off the fog in his brain, and heads into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

He gets the water on and makes the shower quick. The water hurts the stitched wounds on his chest and face, and while he washes his hair, he discovers a lump on his head that’s likely responsible for the headache. It feels good to get off the grime of saltwater left on his skin, but he’s unsteady on his feet; the hot water and steam make it worse and the last thing he needs right now is to slip in the shower and break his neck.

(Though he’s not too irritable to be darkly amused by the idea. Survive a fall off a cliff just to slip and die in the shower.)

He gets out, dries off with the towel that looks unused, and changes, trying not to focus too much on his reflection in the mirror, the new injuries, the color that’s come into the bruises, or the new look that might be in his eyes. He gets dressed in the slate blue button down shirt and dark blue pants Hannibal’s left for him that are just a bit too big on him, presumably because they’re Hannibal’s.

When he finally heads back out towards the kitchen, the smell of food hits him, and his mouth immediately begins to water. He spots Hannibal standing over a pan on a hotplate, his sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows, stirring up what looks like the start of scrambled eggs with little chunks of sausage mixed in. He’s reminded of the first meal Hannibal ever made for him, and how the sausage he’d eaten back them most certainly _wasn’t_ sausage, and a small part of him that still wants to be disgusted by the memory is turned off from eating, but the rest of him is far too hungry and too apathetic about further cannibalism to care.

Besides, as he takes a seat at the stool on the other side of the counter, he sees the empty packets on the countertop; powdered eggs, powdered milk, freeze dried sausage. There’s an unopened can of halved peaches sitting on the counter as well. Will accepts pretty easily that the food is all non-human, especially since he doubts Hannibal had the time to kill and prepare someone for a meal anyway. 

The food items designed for long shelf lives seem to confirm that this is one of Hannibal’s prepared hideaways, so Will doesn’t bother asking into it.

It is strange to see though, knowing Hannibal’s tastes. Will was used to the mental image he had of Hannibal with his fresh ingredients and gourmet cuisine that so often seemed too extravagant for Will’s tastes. This here was more along the lines of the food Will had growing up, frozen and freeze dried and powdered and canned things, cheap food that would last a long time if money was tight and they needed to stretch what food they had. Will lost track of the times he’d had just a can of fruit or cold baked beans in place of a real meal.

“Never thought I’d see you cooking powdered eggs,” Will comments, voice drawing a little with his lack of energy, “or eating anything that came out of a can.”

“There’s a great deal you don’t know about me, Will,” Hannibal says in a soft voice, the smile lingering on his lips, but not quite reaching his eyes.

Will tries not to reflect too deeply on that. He knows it’s true, that even with going to Hannibal’s childhood home, there’s still years of Hannibal’s life that Will has no concept of. Chiyo told him very little, and Hannibal’s told him even less, so despite everything he’s shared about his life with Hannibal, he’s ended up knowing very little about Hannibal in return.

(At least not anything beyond the fact that Hannibal loves him.)

“Besides,” Hannibal continues easily, the smile spreading to the rest of his face now, “this will be a five star meal compared to what I was served at the state hospital.”

Will actually knows just how true that is. Assuming the quality of food didn’t improve under Alana’s guidance, he was lucky at the hospital if the food he was given was even warm, much less appealing. The food he made for his _dogs_ was better than what they served to the patients there. And Hannibal had spent three years eating that food, far longer than Will had had to suffer through it.

Will catches Hannibal glancing at him, humor twinkling in his eyes before he adds casually, “If I ever meet the cook who prepared my food, I’d have to make him a meal actually worth eating.”

_Jesus, did he just..._ Will is suddenly torn between disapproval, and... _amusement_ , fuck, he’s _amused_. He moves his hands to cover his face because it’s bad enough that he’s amused by a shitty cannibalism pun (jesus _fuck_ he can’t believe Hannibal just said that), he’s definitely not going to let Hannibal _see_ that it amused him, that’s he actually smiling over Hannibal making a terrible joke about eating someone.

When he pulls his hands down from his eyes and looks at Hannibal, he can’t tell if Hannibal is smiling because he saw Will’s reaction, or if it’s that same stupid grin he always gets whenever he made one of those jokes.

To avoid having to address it, Will decides to change the subject, even though he’s too hungry and too irritable to discuss this reasonably. “We should... talk about this. About what the hell we’re doing.”

Will’s not sure exactly what he means by the words, if he means 'we' to indicate what he and Hannibal are doing, in terms of... this new turn in their relationship, the kiss they shared last night, or... if he means more along the lines of where they’re going next, what they’re going to do. Fleeing should probably be their priority. Once the FBI finds where Dolarhyde was killed, they’re likely to find their blood as well, the trail that would indicate their proximity to the cliff, and imply they went over the edge... but if Jack has any sense about him, Will doubts he’ll believe they died in the fall. He imagines it’s only a matter of time before their faces are plastered on every news station in the country.

But Hannibal shakes his head, and scolds, “Breakfast first,” as he pushes around the slowly cooking eggs in the pan. “There will be plenty of time for talk later, once our bellies are full and we’re on the road. There’s no sense in needlessly rushing the conversation.”

Will hates that Hannibal’s right. Unless Will was planning to leave immediately, which he most certainly wasn’t, they _don’t_ need to discuss it now. Will doesn’t even want to discuss it right now, he’s far more content just letting it _happen_ , because as long as they don’t talk about it, Will can stop the cycle of endless overthinking before it even starts. And for as shitty as he feels, he’s... enjoying this. After an entire life of planning out every move, one step at a time, after the last few years of this intricate dance he’s done with Hannibal, there’s a deep relief in finally dropping all of it and just letting what happens happen.

Hannibal was right when he said it yesterday, Will _does_ worry too much. Part of him can’t help it, it’s just who he is, but... for the moment, he thinks he can just go with it, whatever “it” is, try out a taste of what Hannibal has in store for the both of them.

He won’t admit that Hannibal’s right, though. Hannibal looks smug enough without Will patting him on the back, and he’s not in a good enough mood to give Hannibal the satisfaction.

Instead, he snatches the can opener off of the counter and uses it to open the can of peaches, before setting both things back down.

Hannibal turns from the eggs to grab two bowls, forks, and sets those on the table in front of Will.

Will takes the hint, but as he starts to dish out the peaches evenly between the two bowls, his eyes flicker up to watch Hannibal begrudgingly as he finishes cooking the eggs, and it’s almost irritating how... pleasing he is to the eye, how put together he looks so soon after waking, his hair that’s dried neatly slicked back (while Will’s is a mess of tangles and curls), the way his sleeves are neatly rolled up to his elbow, revealing his strong forearms with the faint scars down the insides (from Will’s attempt to kill Hannibal by proxy), his deft hands and thick fingers. The top button of his shirt is undone, and Will’s eyes linger on the hollow of his throat, the soft curve of his adam’s apple, the strong line of his jaw that Will finds incredibly hard not to enjoy looking at. Will can see the start of stubble on Hannibal’s chin (he didn’t have a razor in the bathroom) and fuck, even that looks good on him. Hannibal’s eyes are on the food when Will’s gaze rises to them, and he notes the softness in his brown eyes, taking on warm golden tones in the morning sunlight.

Will wonders when he started _finding_ Hannibal Lecter attractive, instead of just _acknowledging_ that he _was_ attractive, before deciding that he doesn’t want to think about that, either.

When Hannibal leans forward to set the plate of food down in front of him, Will finds himself reaching out... he puts his hand in Hannibal’s hair and messes it up, disturbing it from its perfect position, just to spite him and his damn good looks.

But Will quickly realizes it’s a losing battle; the way Hannibal’s hair falls messily over his forehead and the way Hannibal smiles because Will _touched_ him just make him even easier on the eyes. Will could kick himself.

He pulls his hand back quickly, frowning, and just diverts his attention to his food, spitefully stabbing a piece of sausage and putting it in his mouth so that he doesn’t have to look at the endlessly pleased look on Hannibal’s face as he sits down next to him.

They eat in silence, Will thinking that these are probably the best powdered eggs he’s ever had (wouldn’t have even known they were powdered if he hadn’t seen the packaging), but too prideful to actually say it, and the peaches are sweet and tender. His stomach is grateful, his taste buds are grateful, and he feels far more comfortable once he finishes eating, the hunger pangs disappearing completely, and taking a lot of the edge off the rest of his pain.

After breakfast, Hannibal moves around the house, collecting things, packing a bag. Will sees food and clothes and cash going in, but doesn’t make a mental list of everything they’re taking with them, and before long, they’re back in the unfamiliar car and heading out.

Perhaps this is the time Hannibal meant for Will to get back to the conversation mentioned earlier, but once they’re on the road, Will doesn’t bother bringing it up again. As they pull away from the house, he asks, “Where are we going?”

Hannibal replies, “I believe we owe a visit to Dr. Du Maurier.”

And Will is actually satisfied to leave it at that.


	3. After the Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The adrenaline of the hunt follows them back to their motel room, where they seek to satisfy yet another primal hunger.

As they race away from Bedelia’s, Will’s heart is pounding and Hannibal has a new wound in his thigh. The fork missed his femoral artery by barely half an inch. Even drugged and in pain, Bedelia was a formidable opponent. 

(Her leg, exquisitely prepared, had been delicious.)

Hannibal is driving like the devil’s after them (despite Will never being too sure Hannibal, himself, wasn’t the devil), even though they aren’t being chased, and it’s only adding to the speed of Will’s heartbeat, the rush of adrenaline pumping in his veins as Hannibal steers them south out of the city, away from Bedelia’s home and out of Maryland entirely. 

Will’s eyes are glued to the dark scenery passing by outside the window, going from houses and neighborhoods to highways, then to back roads and woods and open fields. He’s overstimulated, but it’s somehow perfect--he’s not bothering to calm his heart or his lungs, he feels excited and alive in a way he’s not sure he ever thought he would, and the pain he’d felt earlier is practically nonexistent now.

They drive along obscure roadways and Will relives in his head what just happened, basks in the utter delight that comes with teaching such a violent lesson to someone with the nerve to try to win out over them, basks in how feeling delight over this should be wrong; knowing it’s wrong just makes him feel _better_ in some ways, knowing that he’s taken a big, fleshy bite of forbidden fruit is part of why his heart is still fluttering nearly an hour later.

They drive until they encounter a tiny, rundown motel on the side of the road, the ‘occupancy’ sign lit up like a beacon for them. It’s secluded, and looks exactly like the sort of place one might encounter a serial murderer; Will thinks that probably makes it perfect for them.

Will’s heart starts to calm as they park and climb out of the car; Hannibal gives him the car key to get their bag out of the trunk, while Hannibal walks into the tiny front office to pay for a room.

(The trust makes his heart rush all over again. There’s nothing to stop Will from driving off and leaving Hannibal behind besides the overwhelming desire not to.)

Will slings the bag over a shoulder, closes the trunk, and Hannibal returns a minute later with keys in hand. He leads them across the tiny parking lot to one of the eight scuffed up doors, unlocking it, and flipping the lights on inside.

Will follows him in, the air in the room not nearly as stale as Will anticipated. He tosses the bag into an empty chair, and has just enough time to close and lock the door behind him, glance around the room to spot the single king-sized bed with a plain comforter, the single scratched up dresser with the small tube television on top, the darkened doorway at the back of the room leading to the bathroom, before Hannibal is in his space, Hannibal’s hand is on his face, and then Hannibal’s mouth is on his again, kissing him softly.

Before Will has time to process what’s happening, his hand snaps up to grab Hannibal’s wrist, and he says, “Stop.”

Hannibal does instantly. He doesn’t pull away (though to be fair, Will doesn’t let go of his wrist), but his lips break away from Will’s, on pause, just hovering close by instead, close enough that Will can feel Hannibal’s breath on his lips.

Will’s not entirely sure why he told Hannibal to stop. His lips are already tingling with delight from the brief contact--he liked it, he didn’t really _want_ him to stop. Maybe it was just surprise, the suddenness in the way Hannibal moved into his space shaking him into a just as sudden reaction; maybe it was just to see if Hannibal would listen to him.

“I’m sorry,” Hannibal apologizes, sincere, and Will... believes it. “You seemed to enjoy it last night.”

“I had a concussion last night,” Will retorts coolly. That has nothing to do with him enjoying last night’s kiss, and he knows it... but he can’t help it. He’s been difficult with Hannibal since the day they met, it’s not like the attitude Will’s had with Hannibal had ever succeeded in pushing him away. And now Will can’t help but want to be difficult, as if he needs Hannibal to continue to prove to him just how much he’s willing to put up with to make this work. 

(Somewhere in his head, he vaguely acknowledges that he’s essentially been playing hard-to-get, unintended, since the first day they were introduced.)

Will’s hand gradually loosens its grip on Hannibal, but he doesn’t let go, and Hannibal doesn’t try to pull away. There’s something exhilarating in having Hannibal this close to him, there’s an electric energy that just seems to crackle off of Hannibal (especially now, after hunting together), and Will can taste it in the air all around them, can practically feel the little sparks of static electricity all along his skin, can feel it on his lips as they hover barely an inch away from Hannibal’s. And part of the exhilaration is in knowing that Hannibal’s a predator, _dangerous_ , that he’s been this close in the past and that Hannibal is capable of acts of extreme and efficient violence. Even now, completely unarmed, Hannibal is a vicious beast that could quite literally eat Will alive any moment he chose to.

_I’m a lion tamer putting his head between his lion’s jaws_ , Will thinks, and he’s surprised at the trust he has in this lion (who has already bitten him more than once) not to bite him again.

But then, he just told the lion to stop, and the lion obeyed. Lion tamers often get bit, more than once, before they manage to tame their beasts for good.

(Maybe there’s something about being the one to tame the beast that’s more exciting than any of the rest of this.)

Will lets Hannibal hover, waits him out. He can feel the tension in Hannibal’s body--he knows Hannibal wants to pounce, but he won’t, he _doesn’t_ because Will told him to _stop_. Minutes pass by and Hannibal is as patient as ever as Will tests him, draws this out just to see if Hannibal will wait, just to see if the lion is as tamed as he wants to believe, or to see if the predator instinct will win out before Will gives his permission, and the entire time his heart is beating, so deafening to his own ears that he chooses instead to focus on Hannibal’s breath on his lips, the steady in and out of the warm air from Hannibal’s lungs.

Deep down, Will knows better than to play this game. Hannibal’s patience allowed him to wait for _three years_ in a cell at the state hospital without so much as seeing Will--and for all Hannibal had known, he could have waited for longer--and he was willing to put in that time just to wait for Will to come back to him. 

Will isn’t nearly so patient as Hannibal, and he knows it won’t be long before he crumples, because he _wants_ to kiss Hannibal. After last night, he doesn’t need to think twice about whether he wants it, because he does, and he’s not going to think about _why_ he does, or why he _shouldn’t_ , he’s not going to berate himself over it because he wants to just enjoy something in his life without moralizing every little goddamned thing.

Maybe, he starts to think, it’s just that he wanted this to be his own idea.

It’s too late for that now, of course, Hannibal’s already taken the initiative by kissing him without prompting, but all that means is that Will needs to make a move that will make this his own, that will put him back into the position of control even more so than just making Hannibal stop.

Hand still holding Hannibal’s wrist inches away from his face, his other hand moves up to Hannibal’s shoulder, and he presses against it as he moves his body forward--and Hannibal obediently moves back to maintain the distance between them. Another step, and Hannibal backs up with him again. Will keeps walking until he’s got Hannibal’s back against the wall, hand pressing his shoulder back up against it, and when Will finally looks at Hannibal, he looks interested in what Will has in store for him.

Will feels in control enough then to lean in and press his lips to Hannibal’s, though even making the action his own doesn’t stop him from having his breath stolen away.

Then their lips are moving against each other not so different from how they kissed the night before, except that this time, Will doesn’t feel hungry or achy or lightheaded from blood loss. His heart is pounding strong and quick, and there’s a huge difference between letting Hannibal happen to him the way he had last night, and actually relishing in just what he’s become.

It isn’t long before his fingers loosen their grip on Hannibal’s wrist--he moves his hand to Hannibal’s face instead, and Hannibal’s hand hovers for a few seconds before it’s back on Will’s skin, cradling his face with the utmost care once more.

And it suddenly occurs to Will that Hannibal has barely touched him all day. After years of Hannibal _touching_ him whenever he pleased, they’ve now gone almost the whole day with no contact. Hannibal touched his arm earlier in the safe house, and brushed a hand over his shoulder once in front of Bedelia, but it’s so surprisingly _little_ after the way they’d kissed and embraced and touched the night before, Will might have thought that Hannibal would be all over him now.

It forces Will to face the conclusion once again that Hannibal wants him to have the power. He’d thought it before, when he’d told Hannibal to kiss him, thought it more strongly when Hannibal undressed him and didn’t steal the contact Will knew he wanted. He’s not sure _why_ Hannibal has felt comfortable aggravating his encephalitis, making him kill, attempting to kill him, attempting to eat his brain, attempting to kill his family... no, those things are fine, but anything more than casual _touch_ or a feather-soft kiss is apparently off limits until Will says it’s okay.

If that’s the case, then Will’s damn ready to say it’s okay. He’s tired of “what ifs” hanging over his head, he’s tired of waiting. His subconscious has been dangling _possibilities_ in front of him for years, and with the adrenaline in his veins and the taste of forbidden fruit so fresh on his tongue, he’s primed for another bite.

He stops holding back.

(This, he starts to think, is just another part of the hunt.)

His body presses in against Hannibal, his chests and hips flush, can feel the strength of Hannibal’s chest and the quick rhythm of his heart beat, which for some reason surprises Will. He has to remind himself after all this time that despite seeming almost otherworldly, Hannibal is human. He’s human and he’s being kissed by the man he’s in love with and his heart is racing because of it.

If Will needs any thought to make him feel powerful, it's that. Hannibal is _human_.

The adrenaline pushes him forward. He parts his lips for Hannibal, darts his tongue forward, and his own heart rushes more as Hannibal _gasps_ softly against his lips. It doesn’t take much beyond that before the kiss is deepened, and Will's tongue swipes against Hannibal’s (and it isn’t cold or slimy the way his brain had tried to convince him it would be just to turn him off--Hannibal’s mouth is warm and sweet and tastes almost rich) and his teeth tug at Hannibal’s lip.

Will’s hand moves to Hannibal’s neck, his thumb resting against the hollow of Hannibal’s throat, more subconscious than planned, more gentle than threatening; Hannibal’s hands move too, one in Will’s hair, the other to Will’s back, to the small of it, pressing in gently to keep their hips rooted firmly together.

Will can feel it then, the swell of Hannibal’s erection, pressing against the rising pressure of his own. He’s panting--they’re both panting, breathing each other in, gasping into each other’s mouths as lips and tongues and teeth move together fluidly, as Hannibal submits wherever Will dominates, gives in to what Will is taking from him.

His teeth tug harder at Hannibal’s lip and Hannibal moans, low and soft in his throat--Will feels the surge of arousal pump through him, and with that he’s backing away from the wall, tugging Hannibal forward by his grip around his neck. Hannibal follows, stumbles forward, trying not to break the kiss as Will tugs and maneuvers him, then backs Hannibal up until Hannibal’s calves have met the bedframe.

Will shoves him backward and Hannibal goes down without a struggle. The springs in the old motel mattress creak under Hannibal’s sudden weight, and Will actually looks at Hannibal for the first time since their kissing began.

The expression on his face is seeping warmth. The heated predator’s gaze of earlier is all but gone now as he looks at Will, and all Will can see now is awe and delight, his eyes dark, pupil blown, lips parted, chest heaving, Will can see the outline of his cock pressing up against the dark dress pants, and instead of disturb him, it just makes him painfully more aware of his own erection and desire.

As he climbs over Hannibal, straddling his hips so that their cocks press together through layers of fabric, he knows he’s giving Hannibal exactly what he wants. But he can finally admit that it’s exactly what he wants too.

Hannibal moans softly as Will’s hips settle over his own, his gaze heated and half-lidded, focused intently on Will. Will lowers himself, and Hannibal’s hands move back to his face and hair as Will presses their mouths together again, kissing him fiercely.

Will’s fingers bury in Hannibal’s hair, making a mess of it, he’s sure, and when he grinds his hips down against Hannibal’s, the heat of it makes his own breath stutter.

That’s all it takes to get Hannibal’s hands moving. Will supposes that he’d invited it by moving them like this, and Will’s too into it now to exert control, or to even want to stop Hannibal’s movement. Hannibal’s hands move between them, easily unbuttoning Will’s shirt and then his hands are on Will’s chest, fingertips fluttering across the skin, sending shivers all through Will--particularly as Hannibal’s fingers drift across the scar, _his scar_ , and Will jerks his hips downward suddenly, just to make Hannibal moan again.

Hannibal’s hands don’t stay put though. They explore every inch of his chest--they drift over his nipples, and the contact makes him swallow a moan--then move across his sides before wrapping around to his back under his shirt, his fingers tracing the ridges of Will’s spine, moving up to grip the backs of his shoulders.

Will rolls his hips again, tugs at Hannibal’s lip between his teeth, then rolls his hips _again_. Before long he can’t stop the motion, grinding rhythmically down against Hannibal, the heat between their hips building slowly. The contact is dizzying, Will’s cock is achingly hard, demanding _more_ , because he knows more exists, he knows what the more is. God, he’s not some lily-white virgin getting off for the first time, but the thought of doing anything more than this, letting Hannibal touch him any more intimately than this, makes him nervous like one.

Hannibal doesn’t push them any further. He kisses Will and massages his fingertips into Will’s back and moans low and deep as Will swallows the sounds and forces back any sound his own body tries to make, not ready to give Hannibal the satisfaction, even as it gets harder and harder with the building pleasure.

It’s only once Will’s breath and rhythm begin to stutter that Hannibal takes initiative. His hands move down Will’s back, sliding along until his hands are cupping Will’s ass through the fabric, gripping slightly and squeezing, pulling Will’s hips back into rhythm, grinding their hips together harder, more heatedly, and Will’s head is spinning--he breaks the kiss, power and control spin out of him as the approaching orgasm takes priority, his face drops to Hannibal’s neck, pressing into the hot skin, breathing him in, moving his hips quicker as Hannibal helps him move his hips quicker.

The orgasm grips him all of a sudden, shivering down his spine and releasing into his pants, and he makes a sound, almost a whimper, that he can’t hold back, instead tries to bury the sound against Hannibal’s skin and most certainly fails. Hannibal’s hands are still rocking his hips, rocking him through the shudders of his orgasm--and just a few seconds later, he feels Hannibal tense beneath him, hears his breath hitching near his ear, before Hannibal’s body goes limp.

Will sucks in a breath, the air body-warm from being pressed between them, and he lets his mind drift aimlessly as he comes down from coming. He feels relaxed, sated, as he catches his breath and his heart rate slows--Hannibal’s hands start up after just a moment, and return to massaging the muscles of his back, fingers dancing in smooth, practiced little circles that just make Will go even limper on top of Hannibal.

Hannibal’s head shifts to kiss his temple, his hair, the side of his face, what little of it he can reach with Will’s face buried in the crook of his neck.

Eventually, sense and coherent thought return to Will, enough to realize that he can’t remember ever coming like that before. He can’t remember ever... feeling quite so content after an orgasm, instead of feeling filled with... anxiety about his performance or unease with it happening. It’s not like he’s never enjoyed sex before--he has. He’s not the most experienced man in the world, but he’s had a half-dozen partners in his life, and he’d say _most_ of his sexual experiences have been enjoyable. It’s just that after the fact, he’s constantly plagued with worry, hopes that his partner was pleased and not just faking to get things over with... but with Hannibal, at least, he doesn’t have that fear, doesn’t have that avenue to chase himself down. The part of him that would be worried about such things is... actually self-righteously satisfied with not caring if Hannibal was pleased--and the greater part of him that is still concerned with it can _tell_ that Hannibal is pleased, because it’s seeping out of every pore and stressed by every gentle touch of his hands and lips.

Will can actually enjoy the afterglow this time.

(And... the next time. And the next time. And the time after that. And... God, they’re going to get to do this again. They can do this _as much as they want_. What an intoxicating thought.)

Will isn’t sure how long he allows himself to stay there, muscles loose and feeling pliant under Hannibal’s hands. He’s letting himself enjoy it now because he knows it’ll be frustratingly hard to let himself enjoy it later. Despite the overall resignation in being a compliant party in this adventure, there are still competing voices inside his head that will surely be taking shots at one another once he breaks free of the temporary spell he’s under. He enjoys the peace in his head for the brief pocket of time his head allows it; he’s come to learn he must enjoy these moments while they last, though they’re becoming... less rare, in these last few days, with Hannibal.

Eventually though, he pushes himself up, and Hannibal’s hands fall away, not trying to hold too tight. He looks down at Hannibal, and Hannibal is looking at him like he’s hung the moon, and the look is no less overwhelming now than at any time before. Will tries to frown, but can’t, instead feels the soft expression on his face and the smile almost-curling the corner of his mouth, coming from a place that's willing to forgive all of Hannibal’s transgressions against him and remind himself of all of his own transgressions that Hannibal’s already forgiven.

He can’t keep up the eye contact. He breaks the gaze after just a few seconds and the peace falls away--he climbs from off of Hannibal, grabs a set of pajamas from the bag (actual _pajamas_ \--he would think about forcing Hannibal into something normal for bed, but he’s not sure he’s ready to sleep next to Hannibal in his typical sleepwear), and heads into the bathroom to clean up.

He allows himself a smile over the idea of Hannibal being left in the bedroom with cum drying in his expensive pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love and feedback so far you guys! I have vague plans for what's happening next, but if there's anything in particular you'd like to see, let me know and I'll see if it'll fit in. c:


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